Poe Read online

  “Lisa!”

  Only my voice echoes in the cavernous entry. It feels much darker than the last time I was here. I flash the light through the chandelier, and something small scurries away—a mouse or a large cockroach; it’s impossible to tell. I step into the hall, and the floor creaks beneath me. Dust swirls in the beam of the flashlight, and it all looks exactly the same—or almost the same, because there’s a thin layer of snow dusting the floor where the roof opens up to the sky. And there are footprints. With dragged, scuffled marks.

  I take another careful step forward and flash the light into the living room—there’s the dark hole that opened up under Maddy, along with a couple of empty beer cans, probably Nate’s. And then something else—a dark gray lump. I flash the beam across it and discover Nate’s famous night-vision camera.

  “Daniel! I know you’re here!”

  Nothing.

  Slowly, like I’m walking on ice, I test the floor before each step until I’m close enough to the camera that I can reach out for the strap with my foot, pull it to me. It’s dusty and the lens is scratched, but when I hit the power button, the red light comes on. Do I push PLAY? Do I want to know?

  I push PLAY.

  A greenish-gray image comes into view. It’s out of focus, and at first all I can see is what looks like a chair in the Aspinwall basement; to the right is the skanky mattress on the floor, with the candles in the wine bottles, still unlit. But then the focus adjusts and I can see something move on the chair—someone’s tied to it. I hear a muffled sobbing.

  Lisa? I grip the camera tighter, hold my breath.

  A shadow lights one of the candles, and then I can see that it’s not Lisa in the chair, it’s a man, but I still can’t see his face, because his head droops over his chest. Off-camera is a scratching sound, then a hiss. The man whimpers, but he doesn’t struggle against the ropes tying him to the chair, as if he’s already given up, given in.

  “Now,” says a voice, high and reedy. “Are you ready?”

  The man nods his head dully and raises his head.

  Nate. His eyes bulge with wide-eyed terror, and his mouth is covered with duct tape.

  “Good,” says the voice. Then a tall, thin man comes into view that I immediately recognize from my dreams and from Lisa’s pictures. Daniel. He wears black jeans and a thin white T-shirt. Although the temperature must be freezing, he doesn’t look cold. In fact, his movements are remarkably easy, relaxed, almost clinically detached.

  He briskly rips the tape from Nate’s mouth. Nate reels back in pain. Daniel casually crumples the tape in a ball and tosses it to the corner.

  “Please,” groans Nate. “Please…”

  Daniel ignores him. Instead he crouches down and peers into the camera lens, getting closer. He walks out of the frame and then adjusts the tripod. The camera angle rears up to the wooden ceiling, then back down again, centering Nate exactly. Daniel steps back into the frame again; his head cocks slightly to one side, examining, but he must not be satisfied, because he walks out of the frame again. This time the camera is lifted and moved a few steps closer; everything goes fuzzy as the autofocus readjusts. The zoom rushes in, rushes out.

  “Still not right,” he says.

  Nate’s lips tremble as Daniel steps up behind him, grabs the chair roughly by the back, and then brutally shoves the chair forward. The autofocus clicks in, and I can now see the gash on Nate’s forehead; dark blood drips down his cheek.

  Daniel approaches the camera, apparently checking the viewfinder.

  “Better,” he says quietly.

  “Please…”

  “I heard you the first time,” says Daniel coolly. The camera pans slowly from the gaping wound to Nate’s terrified eyes. A trickle of sweat dripping down his forehead glistens in the candlelight.

  “Think we can do this in one take?”

  “I don’t want—”

  “What you want or don’t want is irrelevant. Now, like we practiced.”

  Nate swallows. “The sins—”

  “For the sins, Nate. Christ, can’t you get anything right?”

  Nate’s eyes roll back in his head like he’s about to pass out. Daniel strides over to him, grabs the collar of his jacket, and slaps him across the face—hard.

  “For the sins of your fathers,” blurts Nate.

  “For the sins of your fathers,” repeats Daniel calmly.

  “You, though guiltless…”

  “Though guiltless.”

  “Must suffer.”

  The word “suffer” dissipates into silence, and then Nate starts to sob in earnest. I cover my mouth with my hand. This can’t be happening. It can’t.

  Daniel claps Nate enthusiastically on the shoulder, like a parent rewarding a child who just hit a home run. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Nate’s head hangs forward while his shoulders shake.

  “I asked you a question,” says Daniel with a veneer of threat.

  “No!” Nate raises his head and visibly tries to quiet himself enough to say, “No, that wasn’t so bad.”

  Daniel smiles, but his smile isn’t real. It’s the wicked grin he flashed me in my dream before he ran off to kill my parents. He steps out of the frame, and then there’s the sound of something unzipping, like a duffle bag.

  “Nate,” I whisper, like I can somehow warn him, change what I know is coming next. But then he must know it, too, because his eyes grow wide again, and he struggles powerfully against the ropes that bind him.

  “No!” he screams. “No, you promised, you said…”

  I watch in horror as Daniel slowly approaches holding a long, slim knife that glints in his pale hand.

  Nate uses his feet to kick the chair back, pushing it slightly across the cement floor, but Daniel doesn’t seem to notice or care. Instead, he looks directly into the camera—at me, I’m sure. He smiles and cocks his head, like he can step through the lens, like he can hear my rolling, panicking heart.

  “I see you,” he says mockingly, and I pull back as if he can. “I see you. Do you see me?” He jabs the knife at the camera, at me, and an ice-cold shiver skitters down my spine.

  Nate pants heavily, pushing himself as far away as he can in increments of inches, like there’s still a way out.

  “Still don’t really know how this works, do you?” Daniel continues softly. “You don’t know shit and you blame your father, but really, it’s your mother’s fault. Your father didn’t tell you anything, because your mother wouldn’t let him. All because she thought you’d be safe then, safe from me.” He chuckles to himself. “And you know, it might have worked. But then you put on the ring, didn’t you? You opened the door. Extended an invitation.”

  What is he talking about?

  “Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice to be back. Refreshing.” Daniel takes a deep breath and pats the flat blade of the knife idly against his chest, like he’s luxuriating in the fresh air. “They’re dead now, aren’t they? Your parents. Dead and gone, leaving you all alone, helpless and ignorant. So unfair. Because in spite of everything you’ve been through, you still don’t know who your father was, let alone your mother. Poe—that’s what you call her, right?—has been giving you hints, I know. She’s been a very naughty girl. Hard to say what’s she’s up to though, considering she hates your tribe almost more than I do. Emphasis on almost.”

  Nate’s pushed his way out of the viewfinder, and Daniel stops suddenly, looks in his direction. “Nate! You don’t really think you can get up the stairs tied to a chair?”

  “Fuck you!” blubbers Nate. “Fuck you, motherfucker!”

  “See,” says Daniel, pointing the knife at Nate, like a teacher using a ruler for emphasis. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You people suffer from baseless optimism. You always think there’s a way out, but there’s not. There’s no way out. Not for Nate, not for your father, not for me.” He turns to the camera, looks at me directly. “Not for you.” His eyes strike me then, almost make m
e drop the camera. In the hazy night-vision image I can see that they’re deep, empty black orbs—each a complete and absolute abyss.

  “We’re all just playing a game. We didn’t make the rules—those were written by others long gone. Pawns, all of us. If you don’t believe me, check the basement. You might just stumble across someone you’ve come to know well.” Daniel laughs quietly at this, but I don’t get the joke.

  Then a dark thought pierces my heart. Lisa?

  “Nate!” Daniel yells. “Nate!” He watches something offscreen, and there’s something feral about the way he stands coiled and ready. I can hear the desperate scraping of the chair being dragged across the floor. Daniel shakes his head. “Crazy-ass people,” he mutters. “Nate! C’mon, man, don’t be pathetic.” With that he tosses the knife in the air with the calm expertise of a juggler; it rotates once, twice, and he catches it easily when it falls. He steps off-camera.

  “Nooo!” screams Nate. “Nooo!”

  I lean against the wall, holding on to the camera with trembling hands. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening—but it is. Nate screams again, no words this time, just a piercing, chilling screech, which is cut off abruptly by a gurgling, choking sound. Something cracks—the chair, a bone, I don’t know. After a few gruesome moments, Daniel reappears in the viewfinder, his mouth and shirt covered with dark blood.

  He brings his face close to the lens. Holds up Nate’s severed head.

  “It’s nothing personal.”

  The screen goes black.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I race through the entry, and a floorboard starts to give way beneath me, but I leap over it, launching myself into the kitchen, skidding across something wet and slippery—another dusting of snow. And then there it is—the door to the basement. I brace myself for the scalding knob, but this time it’s cool in my hand, the way it should be, and I don’t know if this is a good sign or bad.

  My stomach reels as soon as I hit the first step—the rails are covered with blood, the stairs are sticky with it—but I charge down into the darkness.

  “Lisa!” I scream.

  Nothing. Silence.

  My solitary flashlight darts frantically over the floor—God, there’s so much blood. The mattress on the floor is sodden and dark; the cement walls are spattered with it, like the basement has been used for a slaughterhouse. Did they all come here willingly to meet Daniel? Did he trick them into a late-night visit to Aspinwall? Or did he force them here so he could take his time—relish their terror before killing them?

  Is he here now?

  I cast about in the gloom with my light, but if it’s a trap, I don’t care. My hand runs over the cool metal of the gun in my jacket. All I need is one good shot, just one.

  And then—there, the chair, along with the tripod, and near the tripod a massive black duffle bag just like the one Nate brought that Halloween night, which now seems like a lifetime ago. Fuck Mac and his stupid-ass assignment—God, I wish I’d never come.

  “Lisa,” I whisper. Nothing but emptiness.

  Then it hits me. The well. You might just stumble across someone you’ve come to know well. What if she’s there, unconscious but still miraculously alive?

  “Christ, Christ, Christ,” I whisper as I rip into Nate’s bag, hoping his apocalyptic planning includes something I can use. I find black rubber gas masks, along with some roadside flares. I light one of these and toss it on the cement floor—the orange light licks at the blood on the walls, creating an eerie effect. And then, yes—there’s some bright yellow nylon rope, along with an assortment of climbing hooks, plus two glow sticks and a Mylar blanket, which will come in handy if one of us survives the water and doesn’t die of hypothermia. Sweat trickles from my brow in spite of the cold. I take the gear and carefully make my way to the edge of the well. When I get to it, I drop the rope and tentatively flash the light down; it disappears absolutely into quiet blackness.

  No one knows I’m here. If I make it down but can’t get back out, then these will be my last moments alive. Unless wearing the ring really does make me immortal; not a theory I’d like to test.

  “Lisa!”

  Nothing but my own voice, a ghostly echo. I have to try. Daniel knew I would.

  I find a ceiling beam to tie the rope to and then loop it around, fastening the end tightly with the climbing hook. I tug on the rope twice, hoping it will hold. Then I crack one of the glow sticks, dropping it into the black abyss. It seems to fall in slow motion. It illuminates the slimy bricks on its way down, then there’s a faint splash when it hits the dark water below. It’s too far to see anything except the green glow as it gently bobs for a moment and then sinks deeper. I take my jacket off, place the gun and Maglite on top of it, and wrap the rope tightly around my waist.

  My plan is to try to rappel down, a sick joke because my only experience with climbing was an obstacle course in high school that used thick seafaring ropes with large knots the size of a cat’s head. I close my eyes and ignore the panic that is seeping into my chest—every survival instinct I possess is screaming at me that this is a very, very bad idea. My mouth fills with the memory of the brackish water, and my lungs suck at the air as if these are my last breaths. I stand at the edge of the well, crack the last glow stick, hold it in my teeth, and give the rope three more good tugs. Then I take the first step over the edge.

  My boots slide against the frozen slime on the bricks and the rope burns my hands—the first five feet are a jolting freefall, but then I find a ledge to brace myself against. I adjust my position and slowly make my descent. My warm breath hovers in front of me, a little pocket of mist.

  Finally I can see the calm surface of the black water. There’s no body floating facedown, but then he could have tied her to something heavy. Maybe’s she’s at the bottom in the thick silt, floating like a reed in the water. I could still pull myself up and call for help, let the firefighters or rescue workers search with the proper equipment and take the risk, but it would take them too much time to get here. I don’t want to wait to know whether Lisa is dead—I don’t think I could take it—and if she is there, I should be the one to find her. See her first.

  Fuck it.

  I unwind my hand from the rope and let myself freefall the next ten feet.

  The shock of the cold water knocks all the air out of my lungs. I have to use the rope to pull myself to the surface, where I take a couple of deep, frantic breaths. I put the glow stick back in my mouth and then kick my way back down into the water.

  The light from the glow stick is ethereal, and something in my mind switches off the cold. I don’t resist it—I let the numbing pain wash over me as I plunge deeper into the darkness, until my hand finally touches the muddy bottom. I dig around in the muck with my glow stick, but nothing’s there. Lisa’s body isn’t there. A wave of relief rushes through me—maybe she’s fine, maybe Daniel was just fucking with me—but just as I’m about to pull myself back up to the surface, something small and oddly angular catches my eye. My lungs burn, but I wave my glow stick over it and then gently tug at it with my free hand, creating a cloud of fine silt.

  Two horns. A headband of some kind, like a costume prop. And then I see long golden hair entangled in the mud. My hand seems to reach out of its own accord, and as my fingers grasp the hair, I register something else as well, cold and hard—a rock of some kind. Or a bone. I pull it free.

  A skull with empty eye sockets. Something flutters now, loosened from the silt—a black ribbon—and when I pull it I discover that it’s attached to a black mask. I’ve seen this before—this mask, these horns. Alice’s photograph from that Halloween night at Aspinwall in 1941. And in my dream.

  This isn’t Lisa’s body. It’s Khioniya’s.

  It’s Poe.

  My glow light suddenly goes out, leaving me in complete and utter darkness. Cold fingers that I am expecting grip my leg fiercely, pulling me down. But this time I don’t resist. This time I let her take me.

  I am ready. It’s time
for me to see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SÉANCE

  There’s the rumble of an engine, and then a flash of light as a shiny Packard rolls by. I’m standing in the circular driveway of Aspinwall. Carved jack-o’-lanterns glow from either side of the front entrance, and for a moment I watch as the partygoers mill about the lawn: New Goshen’s rich and famous, circa 1940. Each wears an elaborate costume. It must be Halloween, the night of the murders. There goes Zorro—he’s lost his mask and is chatting up a mermaid. A knight in full armor clangs about awkwardly, his sword catching the dress of a Greek goddess and causing her to spill her wine on an Elizabethan lord. A woman dressed as Little Red Riding Hood leans against the doorway, where she takes a lazy drag on a cigarette, looking straight through me.

  She also doesn’t seem to notice the dripping, ghostly figure standing right behind her. As soon as I do, Poe turns, disappearing inside the foyer.

  After a breath I follow.

  Once I’m inside I have to stop for a moment, because what I see is absolutely stunning. I’ve only been in the great hall of Aspinwall long after it was ruined by weather and neglect, but tonight it looks like a castle, a true home for royalty. The chandelier is sparkling, and the mahogany staircase is polished to a high shine, as are the wooden floors. The Italianate frescos, now blighted by mold and mildew, are bright and airy, something you’d see in Venice painted by a master.

  Dimitri. A cold whisper.

  Watery footprints appear on the floor, a trail to follow. But I know where we’re going. Time seems to slow as I wind through the crowd, past a woman dressed as Marie Antoinette, past a pencil-mustached man wearing a large sombrero, past a vampire chatting up a medieval princess, past a clown. I push through swinging doors into the bustling kitchen, unnoticed by a cook in a white starched apron intensely carving a beef roast and the waiters loading up silver trays with fluted champagne glasses. The “baby criminal” sits in the corner, well hidden under a table. He furtively pulls out a cracker from a saltine tin, obviously famished, and the Roman nose is unmistakable. A. Bennet—he must be Lisa and Daniel’s artistic grandfather, Archibald. I wonder how he gets a hold of the Fiends grimoire?